


Homo Cricetinae

by phipiohsum475



Series: Species!Lock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Crack, M/M, No mpreg, Parents, Surrogate, hamster!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the fandom has wolves and cats and dogs and egg fics, and I just thought there are so many other types of species from the animal world...</p><p>So, hamsters.</p><p>**Note the tags, and the animal in question, which should really give you all you need to know.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homo Cricetinae

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

The posh flat bustled with energy. John attended to the children, the three newborns taking their turns at eating, fussing and demanding affection. Jim oversaw the chef. He bristled at letting a stranger into their flat, their intimate space, even though the he’d recruited Moran to dispatch the chef once the meal had been served. He’d normally cook himself, or treat himself and John to a dinner out, but this was so much more than a simple meal.

So much so, that he succumbed to John’s wishes, and along with John’s sister, mother and Seb, they’d invited Sherlock Holmes for the traditional feast. A formal truce had been drafted, a cease fire which extended the evening. Sherlock would be picked up by Jim’s men, rendered temporarily unconsciousness with a drug of John’s approval, and brought to the flat. After all, John insisted that if it weren’t for Sherlock Holmes, they might never have met.

John meandered into the kitchen, and announced to the room, “Charles, Holmes, and Aaron are all asleep, snug in their bedding.” He sidled up behind Jim and placed his arms around him, resting his head on Jim’s shoulder. He tipped his head and pressed soft kisses to Jim’s neck and jaw, and then whispered into his ear, “You’re having the chef killed when he’s done, right?”

Jim nodded honestly, waiting for John’s disapproval.

“Good.”

Jim turned towards John, with wide-eyed surprise, “Dr. Watson, for shame!”

“Shush,” John whispered back, trying to appear as lovers whispering dirty secrets instead of men plotting the death of another in the room. “I can’t take the chance he knows who you are, and that you now have children. It’s safer this way.” He nibbled on Jim’s earlobe, and continued, “Seb’ll do it? After dinner?”

“Before dinner, but he’ll take out the trash afterwards. Wouldn’t want him to miss the feast.” Jim’s voice grew louder, “Oh! Don’t be so naughty, Johnny!”

John smirked at Jim’s blatant misdirection and placed a last kiss on Jim’s temple before going to change for dinner.

-o-

John entered the dining room after watching Seb escort the chef from kitchen. He’d feel remorse, but the arrival of their pups changed his definition of acceptable risk. The cherry table was grandly set with more forks per setting John had ever used, and crystal goblets sat near decoratively folded napkins. The china they’d received as a wedding present from Mycroft, adorned with a delicate circular pattern of murderous men and their bleeding victims, being treated, in turn, by doctors. John recognized it as a critique on John’s choice of partner, but he still found it both lovely and fitting. Between Jim and himself, their effect on the human population was essentially a zero sum game.

The dishes had been placed; roasted root vegetables, asparagus, salads and squash were set amongst rolls and jellies and small dish of olives. Bottles of wine were ready to open, champagne chilled, and John knew his favorite scotch would be in the cabinet for after the meal. At the center of the table, covered with a silver dome, was the entrée.

A knock at the door brought John to the foyer. He opened the door to his mother and Harry, who ‘ooh-ed’ over one of the bespoke suits Jim insisted on adding to his wardrobe, a sharp deep blue suit and tie accented with an ocean blue shirt. Both his mother and sister wore long gowns, his mother’s dark olive, sleeved conservatively and Harry’s strapless ivory, but both elegant. They entered the foyer, and turned their heads to see Jim enter. Jim’s slacks and waistcoat matched John’s, but he wore a caramel jacket and white shirt. Complementary looks, reminding John of Jim’s more frequent endearment, _My Complement_ , a adoration encompassing Jim’s maths background.

Jim stood next to John, and slipped an arm around his waist while greeting his in-laws. Harry and Annie Watson adored him, ever since John convinced them that the media had tarnished Jim’s named like it had Sherlock’s all those years ago. They pitied the poor, victimized mathematics professor, and cursed the media for allowing such inaccurate stories to be run. Of course, this cover required Jim to actually teach mathematics, but with his interest and genius, he found the instruction simple. The topic entertained him; he took to maths as Sherlock did to chemistry, and one room of their flat was dedicated to pages and walls and whiteboards covered in complex mathematical scribbles, as Jim played with figures and absolute truths long into the night while John slept.

“Ladies,” Jim gestured to the sitting room and turned to follow them, bringing John alongside him. They entered the sitting room, where John was only mildly surprised to see Sherlock, blinking repeatedly and waking from his sedative induced stupor. “Once Seb arrives,” Jim started, suggesting Seb was elsewhere, not currently executing the man who’d cooked them dinner, “We’ll eat.”

“John,” Harry turned to him, “Will we finally get to see the pups?” The litter had been born just three days prior, and John and Jim been permitted to raise three of them. Between Jim’s intelligence and John’s skills in surgery and weaponry, they’d been given the opportunity by the British Authority on Population Control and Eugenics to raise one more pup than most couples. Of course, they’d falsified Jim’s psychological testing. BAPCE would never have allowed him to father children otherwise.

Tonight would be the first night that anyone, aside from themselves and Seb, would be introduced.

John and Jim decided on a very private surrogate birth, in a very private location. The woman, Nika, a lovely young Russian with decidedly no worldly news knowledge was chosen for her excellent genetics and complete ignorance in the affairs of London. Nika knew them under false names, false backgrounds, and they even altered their appearance when they visited her, so that, in their gratitude for her services, she could live.

Seb entered the sitting room, still managing to exude the “hired mercenary” look despite the soft charcoal suit he’d changed into. The faint smell of bleach followed him in, and Sherlock glared at John in disapproval as they made their way into the dining room. As he took the seat next to John not occupied by Jim, he hissed in John’s ear, “Am I going to get a text from Lestrade regarding your chef?”

John groaned internally, of course Sherlock would catch that. But still, he murmured, “Doubtful. They’ve not found one of Seb’s yet.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Really? I could use a challenge. London’s criminal class is so lacking in imagination.”

“Not tonight,” John admonished quietly, “You agreed. You both did.”

“But did dearest Seb?”

“Sherlock.” John’s quiet tone ended the conversation with firm caution, and realized the others had settled quietly as well.

“Three days ago, Johnny and I became the fathers of three lovely pups, Charles, Holmes and Aaron, who you’ll meet when they wake from their rest.” Jim began a small speech.

“I see you let Jim name the children.” Sherlock muttered under his breath. John responded with a soft elbow to his ribs.

“Our lovely surrogate, Nika, birthed a little of eight. BAPCE allowed us three, we gifted her one Amstere as a parting ‘thank you’ and so for tonight, our lovely chef has prepared the remaining four for our banquet,” Jim explained with an exaggerated cadence, lifting the cover off the entrée to reveal the four delicately glazed Amsteres, speckled with spices, baked to a luscious golden brown. A few loops of pineapple garnished each Amstere, and Jim passed the carving knife to John. “Would you like to do the honors?”

John stood and smiled, taking the knife and offering a sweet kiss to Jim’s cheek in return. He carved the first, separating the legs and arms from the breast meat and dished the tender meat onto the plates. He carved into two others until each guest had a portion, and then sat and helped passed other dishes as they went by. His plate disappeared under the mounds of gourmet vegetables and meat. They were fortunate. Most couples had at most two Amsteres, and a much larger family to share it with. It was normally cooked into a casserole or soup, to eat it baked like this was a treat that none of his guests, nor he and Jim, had ever before indulged.

Seb offered to pour the wine, and for the first few minutes, nothing but the low moans that accompany delicious foods filled the room. Then with a gulp of wine, Harry asked, “So how’d you end up scoring three?”

Jim spoke first, “Because Johnny here is a crack shot.” He winked obviously at John, “It’s how I fell in love.”

John blushed, mostly because Jim wasn’t lying. During Sherlock’s death, John worked with Mycroft to eliminate Jim’s network, only to discover Jim was still alive, hidden in an estate that intel had reported empty. In a den, John saw a roaring fire, and a shadowed form on the Chesterfield. He caught Jim’s eyes in the mirror over the mantel, and Jim stood and turned with such slow deliberation John expected another bomb. Jim leered his manic smile, and said with a shout, “Johnny-boy! What a surprise.” He looked thoughtful and added, with soft sing song quality, “And I really do mean that, it’s rather lovely. I can’t remember the last time _anyone_ got the drop on me.”

Jim spread his arms in surrender, the plain fitted white tee and dark jeans highlighting his lithe form better than any Westwood. John aimed his Browning at Jim’s head, ready to place a bullet between his eyes. Jim spoke again, this time in with enticing persuasion, “Do it. To be astonished is such a momentous occasion for me. I’d rather enjoy commemorating it with a bang. It gets so **_dull_** -“ he escalated to a shout, then lowered his voice again, “-around here.”

John hesitated. Coming all this way to supply an end to Jim’s boredom seemed like far too little punishment for this embodiment of evil.

“Oh I’m not evil.” Like Sherlock, Jim seemed to read his mind at times, “Just bored. Causing chaos lightens up my day. You get bored, you mix it up, call a friend. Murray, maybe Stamford.” Jim shifted his head in a decidedly reptilian way. “I just call different friends.”

John made his decision, aimed, and fired. Blood bloomed underneath Jim’s left shoulder as he fell. He laughed manically, “Oh lovely, Johnny. God, it feels like fire! Gorgeous, you are gorgeous!”

And then, from nowhere, John felt a pin prick in his neck, and his world darkened. When he awoke, he and Jim sported matching scars.

John shook himself out of his memories, and shared a knowing look with Jim, before answering Harry, “Jim’s a ruddy genius. Nothing to do with me.”

He heard Sherlock scoff beside him, but choose to ignore him.

John’s mother spoke up, “Jim, dear, you have a lovely home. You must be a brilliant professor.”

Jim smiled a toothy, duplicitous smile, “I’m a fair professor, but I do a bit of consulting.”

“Oh, do tell us more about that!” Sherlock jumped in, leaning over his plate, all but the Amstere untouched.

John narrowed his eyes, but Jim answered nonchalantly, “Mostly correspondence. I solve problems other people can’t seem to figure out.”

“A consulting mathematician!” Annie Watson exclaimed. “I bet you and Sherlock are fine friends.”

“We do love our games,” Sherlock smirked.

John frowned. He wasn’t especially fond of their games, but he’d learned to tolerate them more recently.

The conversation rambled on from there. John explained how the pups were biologically his and Jim’s, thanks to a Swiss fertility specialist “friend” of Jim’s, who in reality, exchanged his life for his favors after attempting to defraud one of the few legitimate organizations Jim owned. They discussed Harry’s most recent girlfriend, Sherlock’s latest case, and a few humorous anecdotes about Jim’s students. Seb remained mostly silent; all his stories were war and death.

John stood to carve the final Amstere. Annie and Sherlock declined, Jim, Harry and Seb accepted the treat readily and John put the last of the Amstere on his own plate. He sipped the last of his wine and leaned back. He surveyed the small table of his family, his husband, and their best friends. They had all come to celebrate his pups, and John felt a rekindled bond with them all as they indulged in a meal made, quite literally, from a blend of Jim and himself.

John leaned into his husband, and warm with sentiment and wine, he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> A fun note: My high school French teacher once noted that while we use certain names for animals, the names for their preparation as food often came from French (beef from boeuf, poultry from poulet) so I decided to expand on that idea here, to really distinguish the attitudes between the children meant to be kept and raised, and those to be consumed. Amstere is a anglicized/bastardized spelling of the french pronunciation for 'hamster' which is, in fact, the french word for hamster.


End file.
